


Our Revels are Now Ended

by xXScreenSaverXx



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Communication, Lack of Communication, M/M, ajay being a drama queen, i wrote most of this on my phone, lmao literally tho, mentions of amita and sabal, so so many goddamn commas, sorta monologue-y, thats the entire fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 19:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16793308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXScreenSaverXx/pseuds/xXScreenSaverXx
Summary: Pagan Min spouts bullshit on the daily. It's just another fact of life: the sky is blue, guns are loud, Pagan has a severe lack of any type of filter, tigers are scary. And, amidst a civil war to rival a blockbuster movie and a crippling lack of any trustworthy allies, Ajay might, begrudgingly, just admit that... he doesn't mind the endless chatter so much.





	Our Revels are Now Ended

**Author's Note:**

> yo! this is my first far cry 4 fic, so... well, take that as you will. have fun, i guess? and thanks for taking the time to read! at the time of writing i was literally at funeral so sorry if its kinda depressing or whatever :3 ((also, sorry for the abundance of commas and hyphens - wtf is even up with that??)) ((also im british but peer pressure means that some words are americanised so.... yeah whaddup))

_'Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve_

_And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,_

_Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff_

_As dreams are made on, and our little life_

_Is rounded with a sleep.'_

_-_ William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

* * *

It doesn’t dawn on him all at once. However, when it does finally occur to Ajay that, yes, he does, in fact, hate the silence, it’s more of a subdued realisation. Not that Kyrat could ever be fully described as quiet - there’s always a leopard around the corner or gunfire from over the hills - but it’s the mindless chatter of other humans that he misses most about America. There, you could hear stories endlessly, every turn you made leading to wilder and more abstract conversations to eavesdrop on. Here, though. Ajay, maybe not being a connoisseur of, but certainly appreciating, a good chat with someone, chooses not to count pained screams or constant pleas for help as conversation. He has those filed under _‘the result of twenty goddamn years of civil war’_.

That’s what makes hearing Pagan such a relief. He never expected to put the words _‘Pagan’_ and _‘relief’_ in the same sentence, especially not if it didn’t also include _‘grenade launcher’_ and _‘gone for good’_ , but hey - Ajay figures he’s come full circle, and landed himself back outside of the van with Darpan, just glad to hear someone that isn’t a soldier. _Hakuna-Matata, or whatever._

So, here he is. Cyclical symmetry be damned, squatting in a newly liberated bell tower for shelter against the pounding rain outside. And, naturally, inside too, judging by the small puddle forming next to him. A lot has changed since he entered Kyrat. What used to be a soothing backdrop is now a cause for anxiety, knowing full well that many predators will make use of the rain to stalk their prey. Ajay just hopes that prey isn’t him. He mournfully acknowledges how easy it is to be ambushed like this - he’s been the predator on more than one occasion.

He jumps a little when his phone buzzes with static. Not that he’d ever admit to it. But somehow, despite the rain dulling his senses and the overwhelming, constant tiredness that comes with too much exercise, not enough food, and the ceaseless hounding by two particular terrorist leaders, who shall remain unnamed for his own sanity, Ajay feels a deep thrill of relief, accompanied by the necessary exasperation when a deep voice calls, “Ajay!”. Pagan rolls the _‘j’_ with a self-satisfied purr that Ajay really shouldn’t find so comforting. He puts it down to the sleep deprivation and chooses to ignore the warm feeling in his stomach as he pretends to ignore the call.

“Come on, my boy!” Pagan chuckles. “The silent treatment? Really? After all these years, I’d thought you might have grown up a bit. It’s like I didn’t even miss a day!”

He doesn’t know what the dictator was expecting. Ajay never responds, a fact that is often ignored and bulldozed right over. And the other man really could bulldoze. He was like a pro, steamrolling his way into conversations effortlessly, regardless of however one-sided they were. _Something he has in common with Rabi_ , Ajay sniggers silently to himself. The idea of the two men having anything in common at all is a reasonable cause for all fashion of morally debatable mental images. He shakes his head and turns back to the rain as the other man drones on from the phone next to him. Ignoring the heaviness of his eyelids in favour of checking his arrow count (he’s pretty much good to go), he shakes his head to clear the blurring edges of his vision, and settles in for another night of listening out for (even more, Jesus - where the hell does Pagan pull these guys from?) guards.

“-ut I suppose, we can’t have it all. Isn’t that right, my boy? Power and love aren’t mutually exclusive, you know! Well, obviously you do. I’m sure Paul can testify to that one...”

Ajay isn’t sure when he started looking forward to Pagans calls. At first, it was a mildly amusing way to pass the time, but now? Well. As he sits in the dark, back against a cold metal beam with droplets of stray rain dripping steadily down his back, he supposes that it’s become something not unlike an addiction. A way to stave off the hunger of the night, to keep the darkness - or Yalung, or whatever it’s called - at bay.

Because it is a darkness. A deep tar pit, a conglomerate of Ajay's deepest fears, meshed into the shadows that creep about when the sun falls, even in the security of his safe houses. He remembers himself as a child, terrified of looking under his bed, but even more scared that his mother would look instead. That she’d be the one to get eaten. But in her infinite wisdom, she just laughed, a chiming noise like the wind that for all his efforts, Ajay could never quite replicate entirely, and told him that sometimes, _‘even monsters want friends, Ajay’_. That if he was friendly, nobody would get eaten, that it wasn’t all as scary as his eight-year-old brain told him it was.

His first thought when he saw Pagan, swooping down in his helicopter like an avenging an- an avenging _something_ , was, ‘ _he looks like a monster’_. His second was, ‘ _maybe he’s lonely, too’_.

Despite his best efforts to _stay away, run far, don’t get caught_ , Pagan drew him back in. A darkness that wasn’t really dark, just empty. And Ajay finds himself constantly waiting and, against his will, hoping for a call.

“My dear, are you even listening? Did you put me on mute again? Honestly, the nerve of your generation!”

Ajay never muted him. That doesn’t stop him from pretending he did and rubbing it in his face, though. He can’t help but smirk remembering the other man’s sheer outrage when he realised that he’d been ranting and raving at an unhearing audience for an hour, for Ajay (supposedly) to catch only the end of a surprising comprehensive argument against bandanas. Pagan didn’t have anything against headscarves, or anything against most headwear in general, for that matter, but for whatever reason, bandanas were where he drew the line. Ajay didn’t, and still doesn’t, pretend to understand.

He suspects that Pagan-Min, dictator and enslaver of Kyrat... may just be a little bit lonely. He’s not surprised, thinking back to his mother’s advice. Ajay thinks it must be tiring, to always be the monster. And tiredness, he understands. Over the past few months, it’s become a constant companion.

So, here he sits. Waiting for a dawn that he knows will come eventually, while the rain beats down a steady stream at the back of his consciousness. He won’t fall asleep yet, he can’t. But he’ll sit there, listening to a man broken apart and stitched back together enough times to make him cold, callous, and cruel, with a soft smile playing on his face. It’s a long way off from sunrise... but he’s got enough time to listen.

“They just don’t get it! Hot pink is the new ‘in thing’, it’s not my fault they don’t understand! Not like you or I, my boy..."

* * *

Pagan calls Ajay. It’s almost an unspoken rule between the two, that he’s always the one to make a move. Never Ajay. He’s sure that Pagan would mind it if he called - if anything, the man would be thrilled - but it’s become a point of pride, now.

If anyone were to ask why the two men kept in contact, Ajay could point his finger at the dictator and feel no guilt. It’s not like he initiated their conversations, after all.

But regardless of who calls who, Ajay still feels bludgeoned when a week goes by and there’s no static and no deep, rumbling voice calling his name. He trends to pretend that it doesn’t hurt, and for the most part, it succeeds. But some days, with the wind howling in the distance and the stars hung in clusters in the midnight sky, he lets himself feel sad. Only for a moment, though.

Ajay keeps himself busy. Freeing hostages, tearing through outposts, whatever works. Occasionally he runs a mission for the Golden Path, but he finds himself avoiding Amita and Sabah as much as possible. Instead, he finds himself teaching Bhadra how to shoot a bow and hunting rare animals for the House of Chiffon Fashion Week.

It takes him about three weeks to get concerned enough to break their rule. He considers his cracked, broken phone for a good ten minutes before sighing, and conceding.

He turns it over in his hands, examining it from every angle. Eventually, he brings himself to push his doubts aside and furiously hits down on the call button. It rings once. And twice. And it keeps ringing, until - it goes to voicemail. Ajay states at the screen in disbelief, feeling an irrational anger well up, his chest constricting in a way he doesn’t want to think about. 

At Pagans cheerful (and vaguely threatening) “Leave a message at the beep!” Ajay lets himself give in to the muted fury that’s slowly been building up in him for the past month.

“Seriously?” He spits at the device. “Endless streams of bullshit for months, and then - then nothing? Radio goddamn silence? You pretentious son of a-“ he’s cut off by the sound of the phone being picked up. Pagans voice cuts him off abruptly.

“Ajay?” It’s gruff and growly, like he’s just woken up.

He’s filled with the irrepressible urge to say something, to make his point, but - “Pagan?” He asks in a small voice. He’s sure he’s barely audible over the phone.

“My boy, why ever are you...?” He hears the rustling of blankets as Pagan crawls out of bed with a sleepy sigh. “You never call, are you okay? What’s happened?” His voice is suddenly all business, to-the-point, and stern in a way that makes Ajay wasn’t to just crawl to him and sink into that warmness, and never let go.

He finds his voice again. “I just-“ he coughs, “you haven’t-“

“I haven’t what, dear boy?”

“... called? This was stupid, I’m just going to go-“ “Wait!” He’s silenced again, taken aback slightly at the ferocity in the other man’s voice. “You didn’t... you wanted me to-“ Ajay can’t take it anymore. He hangs up swiftly, before promptly chucking the phone at a wall.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Pagan wasn’t his friend. Friends both to call, they bother to respond, they show interest- oh.

Ajay hasn’t been a very good friend _(But Pagan has been trying. Was trying. Maybe)_ His mom would be ashamed.

So he books it. Running away from the snapped remnants of his phone, away from Pagan, away from that beautiful, lonely monster.

He’d never blamed Ishwari for loving him. Everyone had judged and wondered, but to Ajay, it had always been obvious why. He could be unreasonably, inhumanly cruel, but he could also be sweet. He could be kind and considerate, because deep down, under hundreds of layers of hate and pain was something sad. Something small, but big enough to be nurtured and protected. He’d never blamed his mom for falling for a tyrant.

Deep down, Ajay wondered when he’d done the same.

The undergrowth tears at his arms, legs pumping as he propelled himself through the forest. He sprints over hills, avoiding the wildlife with practiced movements as he forces himself not to look back. He refuses to let himself look up either, at the winking stars that don’t seem so friendly anymore.

He runs and hides, then runs some more, until it’s like his entire body has been put on autopilot. Rationally he knows it serves no purpose. That doesn’t do much to stop him. So, he keeps going, pushing relentlessly on, until he’s cut off.

A royal guard vehicle skids to a stop in front of him, its signature dark red colours blending in well with the shadowed landscape. He almost runs straight into it. It tears to a halt, its tires screeching in the rough asphalt that forms most of Kyrat’s roads. Ajay jerks his hands in front of his eyes, shielding them from the blinding headlamps, just waiting for the gunshots, when-

“Ajay?”

He feels like he’s been slapped, thought process winding to a halt. The car's ignition cuts off and the driver's car door is flung open. He doesn’t think twice.

Pagan lets out a soft grunt when Ajay flings himself at the other man, stumbling backward as he hugs him with all his might. The dictator is soft and warm, and Ajay can feel himself practically sinking into the embrace. To his credit, Pagan takes it in stride, reciprocating gently by hesitantly running an unsteady hand through the younger man’s hair. “I’m sorry, darling,” he murmurs gently. His breath is hot against Ajay’s neck, who only shudders softly and grips tighter.

After another minute of clutching Pagan to him, Ajay regains his use of the majority of his rational thinking, and jerks back, just out of reach.

“I’m sorry. That… that was a mistake,” he starts, taking a small step back. “I really should just le-“

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Pagan cuts him off. Again. If he was any less emotionally unavailable at this point, Ajay probably would have been insulted, but he’s filled with such sheer relief at hearing that smooth baritone again that he just… can’t be. He opens his mouth to stutter out another response and flee when Pagan surges forward and grips Ajay’s arms in an unbreakable grip, who lets out a small _‘eep’_ of surprise.

“I’m so sorry, Ajay,” Pagan chokes out, voice husky and crackling with emotion. Ajay gulps. “I thought… You never replied, so I assumed-“

“That I didn’t want to talk?”

“Well, yes, but mainly-“

“Pagan,” he lets out a small sigh. “I never want to talk. To anyone.”

Pagans eyes widen, before growing almost sorrowful.

“Oh. I see.”

“No, Pagan!” Ajay gnashes in annoyance at the fact that this stupid, beautiful man still doesn’t get it. “I don’t like talking, not to anyone. But that doesn’t mean I don’t lo- like hearing from you!” he catches himself mid-sentence. But judging by the growing smirk playing on the older man’s mouth, he’d say that the slip was noticed anyway.

Pagan creeps forward, movements smooth and graceful. He grabs Ajay’s arms again, this time far gentler than before. He strokes a rough but not quite calloused hand over Ajay's own, the warmth seeping through in a way that makes both of them, privately, want to weep. When he speaks his voice is thick with emotion, but the soft, unwavering smile gracing his face says that its good emotion, not sad or angry.

Ajay considers smiling back, but decides against it, knowing that the other man will know anyway, that he doesn’t need to force himself. Pagan gently lifts a palm to his cheek, just about stroking it with a feather-like touch that leaves him yearning for more.

“Ah, well. In that case,” Pagan hums, leaning in with happiness and relief in his eyes, pressing his body to the other mans, their shared heat chasing away any notion of being cold, let alone complaining about it. His lips are just inches away, close enough that Ajay can feel his soft puffs of breath against his own, and-

“I’m so glad we’re back to normal, my dear boy. I’ve got so much to tell you, you wouldn’t believe!”

Ajay wants to weep.

“Firstly, just so we’re clear, lilac is a colour that should be worn by no one. But tell that to my assistant! She just won’t-“

This time, Pagan’s the one being cut off. After so long listening to Pagans whining and bitching and moaning, he’s finally found a practical way to shut him the hell up.

“Brilliant, Pagan. How about you tell me about it later?” he asks, emphasizing the ‘later’. Then he drags the other back in for another sweet, aching kiss, and Pagan, again, shuts the hell up.


End file.
